The Migrant Mother - The story.

The Migrant Mother, by Dorothea Lange

I stared out at the dark, dusty sky, praying and hoping that today, there would be a small miracle. A miracle that could feed my children, just once a day. A miracle that this would end soon and we could go back to our lives we had before. A miracle that would let everybody live through this. 

I knew it was almost impossible for all of my many children to get one good meal a day. I knew most people were in similar situations. I also knew that this would go on for a very long time. 

However, all I could do now was to pray to God asking him for help and His mercy. There was nothing left I could do. My children were sick and tired from starving for days and days. I was weak and hopeless from the days of begging for food from others and caring for my children. Everything was stripped away from me and I had nothing in my hands. No food, no money, no anything. 

Every day and night, I would cry out to God, asking Him and getting mad at Him for what He had done to us. Why He had done this to us and when this would end.

My children pulled on my clothes as I walked into the tent, looking at me with their hopeful eyes. The biggest one opened his mouth, asking if I brought any food. Shaking my head, I patted his hair saying sorry. All of my childrens' heads dropped and slowly walked away from me. I collapsed onto the ground, and tears bursted out of my eyes. The youngest child came to me and sat on my lap, crying and asking when she would be able to eat. I softly said 'I don't know,' patting her head and looking out in the sky, praying once again.